Dreamtime
by S. Faith
Summary: Bridget isn't particularly superstitious, but in this case, she'll make an exception. Pre-Mad About the Boy, AU.


**Dreamtime**

By S. Faith, © 2018

Words: 2,153  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary: Bridget isn't particularly superstitious, but in this case, she'll make an exception.  
Disclaimer: Isn't mine.  
Notes: Pre-_Mad About the Boy_, AU.

* * *

She didn't remember when the dreams began, precisely, or the details, but she awoke feeling desperately afraid. She would reach to her husband and cling to him in the night; never waking him, never wanting to trouble or worry him, but taking comfort in his solid, reassuring warmth.

She remembered precisely, though, when the explosions started appearing in her dreams. When _he_ was at the centre of those explosions. Hiding the trembling, the tears, in the middle of the night in the dark of their bedroom was impossible, so it was rare for her to actually be grateful for him to be away for the week. She wouldn't have wanted him to see her in this state even though paradoxically she wished dearly she could feel his strong arms around her.

When it happened again the following night, the door to the bedroom creaked open; she was startled for a moment until she saw the silhouette of her little boy, two years old and already fiercely independent. Immediately she pushed aside the duvet. "Billy. What are you doing out of bed?" she asked, going to him and sweeping him up, resting him on her hip in a familiar position.

"Mummy crying," he said, concern in his brown eyes; he brought up one of his little hands to pat her tear-streaked cheek. "Mummy okay?"

She smiled, love swelling in her heart for her son. "Yes, sweetheart. I'm okay. Just had a bad dream, that's all." She sniffed. "How did you get out of your crib?"

He covered his face with his hands, hiding his mischievous smile.

"Never mind. How would you like to stay in here with Mummy and Mabel tonight?" As she asked this, she absently ran a hand over her distended stomach. Mabel was due to join their family in little under a month.

Billy smiled, then nodded. "Okay."

She didn't have her husband to hold her after the dream, but holding the son they'd had together proved to be just as comforting. But one things was clear—she was not going to be able to keep this recurring dream from him any longer.

She was very glad that he would be home soon.

…

"Everything going well?"

"Just fine, Mark," she said, her voice high and tight all of a sudden.

After a beat, he asked, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, just a bit of dryness in my throat," she said, clearing her throat repeatedly to demonstrate. "Billy's right here," she said, hoping to change the subject. "Billy, would you like to talk to your daddy?"

Of course he did, and he reached out his hands to take the handset. "Hi, Dada," Billy said brightly. But her misstep became immediately evident as her son continued speaking: "Mummy had a bad dream last night. Uh huh, she was crying. You coming home soon?" She heard Mark's voice muffled against Billy's ear; as if instructed to do so, Billy handed the phone back to his mother. "Here, Mummy."

"Thanks, darling," Bridget said. She brought the phone back up to her own ear. "It's me again."

"So what's this about a bad dream?"

"It's nothing, really," she said.

"So much 'nothing' that our toddler son mentions it?"

She sighed. "It's probably… hormones. You know, the impending girl child."

Mark did not reply for a few seconds. "Bridget," he said at last, conveying everything he felt in just her name; he didn't seem to buy it for a moment.

"Mark," she said. "I don't want to talk about it over the phone. You'll be home soon, right?" He said nothing. She repeated, "_Right_?"

"That's… partly the reason I was calling," he said. "The talks are being extended another day. But… well, it's clear you need me to come home, so I'll come home."

Now she felt silly. It was just a dream; she was overreacting. "It can wait another day," she said.

"If you're sure," Mark said. "I'm not going to come home tomorrow to a massive pout, am I?"

She smiled, then laughed lightly. "I promise, it'll keep another day."

On the other end of the line, he was quiet. "Give our boy a long cuddle from me, will you?" he asked quietly.

"Of course," she said. "Until tomorrow, love."

She put down the phone, sighing. She would feel so much better once she could talk to Mark and get the fears she was feeling off of her chest. When she had the dream again that night, even with her little boy there with her, she was twice as anxious.

And she remembered something more with this latest iteration—wherever this dream was taking place, it was as unlike the lush greenness of England as she had ever seen. Still the same vast blue sky, but unlike England, it was cloudless, and the landscape was all rusts and browns, sand and clusters of scrubby trees; more like a savannah than a desert.

It was beautiful, but the sight of it filled her with a deep-seeded dread. She knew the explosion was coming any moment, and no amount of running could allow her to find him, or to stop the explosion from happening.

…

It was an innocent comment that got Mark into trouble shortly after he arrived home that next day. "I'll mind William tonight," he said, "so you can get some _proper_ sleep."

"Appreciate that," she said, but then narrowed her eyes and added, "Wait, what do you mean by 'proper sleep'?"

"Well, you just look a bit peaked, that's all," he said. At the evident change in her expression, he added, "Though in retrospect I could have done without suggesting you looked tired."

Bridget's pursed lips changed to a smile. "Well. I suppose that'll do," she said. "Speaking of sleeping, it's not Billy keeping me awake."

"Right," he said, then sat. "The thing that would keep another day. Tell me what's wrong."

So she did; she explained the series of increasingly terrifying dreams that she had been having whilst he was away, coming close to tears, and watched as his colour paled. "Oh, darling," he said quietly, then took her into his arms. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you."

_He's taking this hard_, she thought. _Poor Mark_. "It's fine, I'm fine, really," she said, sniffling. "I had Billy to cuddle, and I'm not ever truly alone with the baby…" She indicated her protruding stomach by running her hand over it.

"That settles it," he said, rather in a non sequitur, drawing back from her. "Jeremy will have to find someone else to go in my place."

"Wait. What?"

Mark pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. "The refugee crisis case."

That case. The one that had been eating his days and nights for months on end. "Go?"

"Everything's coming to a head and… he wants me to go there to conclude things. It'd be shortly after the baby comes and it wouldn't be for more than a week. I was on the fence about going. But this… I'm not superstitious, but I have to admit I'm a little unsettled. You're describing the landscape there."

"I probably just saw photos from your case files," she said, trying to minimise the chill running down her own spine. "You've worked hard on this case, and you should see it through."

"No," he said firmly. "I should be there for you. For our daughter. Maybe this is just the universe's way of getting me to listen." He took in a deep breath; she was surprised to hear the quaver. "There's no reason I can't do any negotiations from here."

She had to admit that she did feel immediately better to hear him say so definitively that he would not travel abroad, and clutched him close to her.

…

On the news ticker, all she saw was the word 'explosion'.

She had the sound down low on the television while she nursed her newborn. She drew her brows together, leaned further forward. The screen changed, just then, and she gasped at the visual that flashed on the screen. The scene was astonishing to her for how closely it matched the dreams she'd had. The news footage switched from a wide shot of the landscape—captioned: DARFUR, SUDAN—to a shot of a burning hulk of what clearly used to be a vehicle. She bumped up the volume just enough to hear a comment, how a legal entourage had gotten caught in the crossfire of local tensions.

Clumsily she reached for her mobile. With shaking hands, she tapped out a message.

_Mark. What's going on._

The silence was maddening. She wanted so desperately to call, but she knew she could not while he was working. He'd admonished her not to do so enough times. So she tried hard to distract herself, putting the children down for naps, cuddling up with her toddler boy.

Finally, an hour later, her phone buzzed with a reply.

_Coming home._

Indeed he was home as quickly as could be expected under the circumstances in London. She extricated herself from the sleeping baby when she heard his car come into the garage. When he entered the house, he went directly to her, took her in his arms, and held her tightly.

"So what happened," she said, breathing in deeply, her cheek pressed firmly against him. His heart seemed to be pounding in his chest.

"Landmine took out the vehicle the team was riding in," he said, his voice quavering. "The vehicle was obliterated. Anton's gone. If I'd been with them, I would have died, too."

She couldn't say a word. She didn't know what she could say. She was so grateful that she could only burst into tears, sobbing into the white linen of his shirt. She didn't believe in the ability to see the future, nor did she believe in this sort of thing in general, but if it had saved his life, she'd believe in it all the way. "Oh my God," she managed at last. She was desperately sad for who had died, but… if it was selfish for her to think only of how she could have lost him, then she would be selfish.

His hand was firm cradling the back of her head. "Darling," he said. He seemed at a loss for words, which was not usual at all. She suspected that he was thinking the same things she was. She knew it would have hit him hard.

"Is Mabel asleep?" he asked quietly.

"Mm-hmm."

"I won't wake her," he said. "But I do need to see her."

As he stood at the side of the baby's crib, Bridget turned and looked up at him; rarely had she seen him look so emotional. The tension was visible in his jaw, and tears brimmed in his eyes. She traced her fingers across his back, nails skimming over the light fabric of his shirt.

"I won't forget this," he said quietly, turning his gaze to meet hers. "This is a gift that I've been given."

She nodded. "Is it terrible of me to feel almost… grateful?"

"No. One _should_ be grateful to be alive." He took in a deep breath. "It's a wake-up call, Bridget. That I would even consider such a trip with a new baby… what on earth was I thinking? I might love what I do, but it's nothing compared to my love for you and the children." To her surprise, tears spilt over onto his cheeks.

She reached up to brush her thumb to wipe away his tears just as her own vision blurred.

He managed to laugh a little, and wiped her tears away. "Now I've set _you_ off."

"That's fine," she said. "I'm just glad to—"

A wail interrupted them both.

As Mark swept the crying infant up into his arms, Bridget continued, "I'm glad to see you… express your emotions. That's all."

He smiled as little Mabel cooed. "I have you to thank for that, darling." He closed his eyes and snuggled Mabel close, drawing in a deep breath to take in her sweet baby smell. "Oh, I think someone's hungry," he said quietly, looking up to Bridget again.

"Right," said Bridget, taking her from him.

"I'll go check on Billy."

Once the baby was settled in to sleep again, she returned to the sitting room to find Mark waiting for her there, seated on the sofa. She sat beside him.

"Billy's asleep."

"So I saw," Mark said.

"Come here," she said, holding out her arm, "so I can properly show you how much I appreciate that you're home, safe and sound."

He came closer, folding into her arms, sliding his arms around her, resting his cheek against her chest; her fingers came up to comb through his hair. She felt him take a deep breath, then exhale and relax even further into her embrace.

Home felt like home again.

**The end**


End file.
